


Horribly, Horribly Wrong

by Laylah



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: F/F, PWP, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-14
Updated: 2006-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-21 09:36:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aquroya is the water city, and water is her specialty. There’s nothing here she can’t handle. Clara — thief Psiren — turns, tossing her cards into the water to make herself a bridge across the lake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Horribly, Horribly Wrong

Clara lands on the cobbles lightly, her heels barely clicking against the pavement. The cops are still no match for her. She smiles, withdrawing the Xingese necklace from her leotard, admiring the shine of moonlight on the emeralds.

Aquroya is the water city, and water is her specialty. There’s nothing here she can’t handle. Clara — thief Psiren — turns, tossing her cards into the water to make herself a bridge across the lake.

She’s about halfway there when something goes wrong. Horribly, horribly wrong.

Something shoots up out of the water, scattering her cards, the delicate bridge disintegrating in an instant as something cold and firm twines around her ankle. She’s falling backward, into the water, and she’s reaching for the snaps on her collar so she can use her array — and then more of those cool, wet _things_ have caught her, splaying her arms out wide and holding her suspended just a few inches above the lake. She struggles, pulls against the — the tentacles that coil around her limbs, but she has almost no leverage like this and whatever’s holding her is _very_ strong.

“Sshh, don’t fight me, pretty girl,” murmurs a voice from the water, almost human, almost a woman’s. “I’m going to have you, but you could enjoy it.” More tentacles — good god, how many of the things _are_ there? — crawl over her skin, slide under the fabric of her leotard, slide up to caress her face.

“Stop it,” Clara manages, as soon as her voice will work again, “let me go, you —” and then one of the biggest of the creature’s tentacles, easily as thick as her wrist, forces its way between her lips. She chokes and arches her back, trying to pull away, but it follows her, pushing deeper, filling her mouth, and now she’s bent over backward with this creature’s tentacles wrapped around her limbs and her waist, and one of them _thrusting_ in her mouth.

The others move, sliding possessively over her skin, and she hears fabric tear — if it would just expose her array, and if she could just concentrate, she could do _something_ about this — but no, it’s torn the back of her costume instead, cool, slick tentacles exploring all-too-sensitive skin.

“Let me in, little girl,” the creature whispers, spreading her legs, stroking and pressing with all its grotesque appendages. Clara feels one sliding wetly between the cheeks of her ass. She moans — _no, please, don’t_ — but there’s nothing she can do, no way for her to stop it, as the tentacle forces its way into her ass. This one is more slender than the one choking her, at least, but it’s still more than she wants to take, stretching her open, squirming deeper as she shudders and struggles.

More tentacles wrap around her breasts, the tips teasing her nipples — the cold and the friction make them sensitive, make them harden under the unnatural caress. Clara whimpers, unwilling to believe that this thing could be trying to cause her pleasure — or that it could be _succeeding_ , oh god, that she could be responding to its touch, that her clit could be swollen and aching with need, that she could be getting wet with more than just its fluids as it violates her.

The one in her mouth slows its motion, stroking her tongue almost languidly, and she finds herself relaxing gratefully into the creature’s hold, trying to catch her breath, when another drifts down over her belly and between her legs. She moans as it brushes her clit, just a gentle, teasing stroke, and then slides lower, the tip circling and dipping just barely into her cunt. Her hips rock toward it, and she tells herself she’s just trying to make it hurry up and get this over with, take her and be done with her — but it only teases and explores, refusing to follow through on its threats, stroking from her clit to the slicked and sensitive invasion of her ass.

She whimpers, and the sound comes out pleading, as though she wants this, as though she wants to come from what this monster is doing to her. It thrusts a little more roughly in her mouth, writhing in her ass, and she moans louder, sucking on the tentacle that slides past her lips. She’ll _have_ to please it, she realizes — she’ll have to give it what it wants, because she can’t fight it and she can’t escape.

Sucking on it seems to help, seems to please the monster, because it stops teasing and focuses its attention on her clit at last. Its strokes are careful, knowing, coaxing, and Clara shudders, trying to focus on that pleasure, to give in to it and let this happen so it will _end_ , and oh god it’s shamefully easy to do it, to enjoy this, to _come_ shaking and moaning and pulling against the tentacles that hold her and far too aware of how full she feels in her mouth and ass, and how much better it would feel with something thrusting in her cunt —

And it draws away from her clit before she really feels like it’s over, before she’s ready for the orgasm to stop, and when she moans in complaint the tentacle slides between her legs again. But it still doesn’t fill her the way she wants it to, drifting further back instead, and squirming, writhing, pressing its way relentlessly into her ass instead, stretching her open almost too much to bear. The two tentacles in her ass slide against each other, pistoning so there’s both constant motion and constant fullness, so that the friction makes her need to move even as the depth of the penetration makes her need to hold still.

She moans again, trying to bite down on the tentacle fucking her mouth, and the monster laughs, the sound sweet and feminine.

“What’s the matter, pretty girl?” the monster asks, teasing, and all its tentacles seem to pulse, seem to ripple. “Are you not getting what you need?”

Clara shakes her head, making an impatient, frustrated sound when the monster caresses the lips of her cunt delicately. She feels so hot, so aching, tender and swollen and _needy_ like she wouldn’t have believed possible. She rocks her hips, as best she can with the creature’s tentacles restraining her, but she can’t quite reach, can’t quite make it take her. When she goes limp in its grip, making a noise that’s half a moan and half a _whine_ of pure frustration, it strokes the inside of her thigh soothingly.

“Mmm,” it says. Its voice is liquid and strange as its form. “You still need more? Are you not full enough yet?” And then it _swells_ inside her, all its invading tentacles thickening until she moans in desperation. “Not quite like that?”

Clara writhes, and she hates the fact that the sound she makes is more of a sob than anything else. But she can’t fight this monster, barely even _wants_ to anymore, if only it would just take what it wants and finish with her.

“Ah, poor darling,” the creature coos, stilling the movement inside her. “You make such lovely noises, it’s almost a shame to stop tormenting you.” But before Clara can completely despair, she feels it slide a tentacle into her cunt at last, pressing deep and filling her completely. She arches her back, encouraging it, moaning when it thrusts at just the right angle, and louder when it strokes her clit at the same time. She’s never felt so taken, so violated, so filled and fucked and _used_ , reduced to nothing but sensation, the push and slide of slick flesh, and she prays that this time when it makes her come it won’t tease like it did before — that it’ll actually let her have release — and then she’s not waiting for it anymore, suddenly she’s there, oh god, she’s coming, twisting and writhing and moaning in the monster’s grip, and it doesn’t end, she can’t stop, the monster doesn’t _let_ her stop until she’s completely drained, hanging limp and shuddering and helpless in its grip.

They’re moving, she realizes after it’s over, after the trembling has subsided to occasional shivers. The creature’s tentacles are still inside her, holding her stretched open, making her feel how tender and swollen she is; but it’s also carrying her toward the far shore of the lake, where she was headed before it caught her in the first place. Maybe, Clara thinks, maybe it’s done with her at last. Maybe it’ll let her go — to flee Aquroya with the treasures she’s already hoarded, and never come back.

It deposits her on the cobblestones of the far bridge, withdrawing slowly, tentacles slithering over her skin in little fond caresses as they pull out and unwind and leave her a dripping, shaky mess. Her legs don’t want to hold her; the first time she tries to stand, she collapses to the stone again.

The click of footsteps coming up the bridge makes her look up: there’s a woman coming toward her, tall and dark and elegant, with black hair that falls past her waist and long evening gloves to match her black dress. She’s smiling, a thin, hungry smile.

“Please,” Clara says, “I — I need help.” Her voice is weak, her throat raw. “I’ve been....” She doesn’t know how to say it, so that it won’t sound ridiculous.

“I underestimated you, Sloth,” the woman says, and she’s looking past Clara, stopping with her hand on her hip as her smile broadens. “That was quite impressive.”

Clara looks back, and there on the pavement behind her is a writhing mass of watery tentacles, condensing and shifting, becoming solid, taking on a human shape — becoming another woman in black, who shrugs faintly and almost smiles. “I’m sure you still have much to teach me, Lust,” she says, and it’s the same voice that taunted Clara, holding her over the lake. Clara cringes back from her, horrified.

“You flatter me,” the first woman says, and she’s suddenly right there, one hand snarled in Clara’s hair to pull her up on her knees, the other holding something very sharp under her chin. “Get up, little alchemist,” Lust purrs. “It’s my turn to play with you now.”


End file.
